Part 9 (1/2)

Thor continued his approach, inches at a time, as the Bad Thing struggled in place. If the Bad Thing broke and ran, Thor would give chase, but as long as it stayed put, there was no reason for Thor to announce his presence by charging in.

He was about fifty feet from his quarry when the underbrush gave way to a small clearing, and he got his first real look at the Bad Thing.

Every hair on Thor's body stood on end. The Bad Thing, whatever it was, was hideously unnatural. It smelled like a dog, but it was not a dog. It was taller, longer, bigger than a dog, and its body was not a dog's body. Covered with fur, it stood upright on its hind legs, with its front legs wrapped around a tree trunk, held together by Uncle Ted's handcuffs. It wore Uncle Ted's sweatpants and the ragged remains of his sweats.h.i.+rt, and a small metal object dangled from a s.h.i.+ny chain around its neck. It had torn away as much of the sweats.h.i.+rt as it could reach with its sharp teeth and the two grotesquely long fangs that protruded from its mouth. What remained of the sweats.h.i.+rt lay limp and tattered around its waist. Its face, though covered with fur, was human-shaped - its mouth and nose were separate structures, not a snout.

Its fangs were sharp and long and dangerous-looking. It had been trying to cut through the tree trunk with them, and had gnawed a big hunk out of the tree before giving up on the idea.

The Bad Thing hadn't seen Thor yet, though Thor had a feeling it knew he was near. Thor backed away slowly, silently, into the surrounding bushes, and circled around it from behind the cover of low-lying foliage. He carefully worked his way through the forest until he was behind the Bad Thing, then edged in for a closer look.

Fortunately, the Bad Thing was chained to the lone tree in the clearing, and the full moon, now high in the sky, beamed down on it like a spotlight. The Bad Thing's attention seemed torn between the moon and the handcuffs that bound it. It struggled for a while, got tired, and gazed upward. Thor kept expecting it to bay at the moon, but it didn't. Instead it glowered at the moon, its face a picture of hate. The only sound that came from it was the same constant low growl Thor had heard in the distance.

Thor was almost directly behind the Bad Thing, but not quite. He'd chosen an approach that kept the handcuffs in his line of sight. He wasn't at all sure he could kill the Bad Thing if it got free. He smelled something in the undergrowth as he advanced, and stopped to check it out. Uncle Ted's sneakers lay on the ground. They smelled of Uncle Ted and the Bad Thing.

Had Uncle Ted tried to put them on the Bad Thing, as he had his sweats.h.i.+rt and pants? Why? And where was Uncle Ted? The questions pa.s.sed through his mind and were forgotten, and he turned his attention back to he beast on the tree.

He crept within a few yards of the Bad Thing when it heard him and snapped its head around to see the interloper.

At the sight of Thor, the Bad Thing flew into a rage. Thor tensed and bared his teeth, ready to fight, but the handcuffs held - the Bad Thing couldn't attack. Instead, it twisted itself around the tree to face him, snarling, growling, pulling at the handcuffs and snapping at the air the whole time. The Bad Thing's fury made it foam slightly at the mouth, and despite its helpless state, it showed no fear, only rage. It was acting like a small dog on a leash, but with a big difference: It wasn't faking anger or hiding fear. Its rage, its hate, were completely genuine. It wasn't afraid; it gave off no scent of fear. Even helpless, locked to the tree, it wanted Thor to come closer, wanted any opportunity to try to kill him.

It was utterly mad.

Their eyes met, and Thor froze. The Thing's eyes were neither canine nor human, but resembled both. It looked straight into Thor's eyes, and Thor looked back as he would never look at a human. Its eyes seemed to beckon to Thor. They bore an invitation to join the Bad Thing in it wildness, in its freedom, in its madness. To enjoy the taste of blood and the smell of death, to revel in the power each of them possessed in such abundance - the power to kill.

Thor had never killed. He'd never experienced the G.o.d-like rush of triumph as a victim's struggles ceased between his jaws, the smell of the prey's blood filling his nostrils. But the Bad Thing's eyes seemed to tell him just how good it felt, to mock him for his unfulfilled destiny, to draw him into its circle of madness and bloodl.u.s.t.

Something deep inside Thor told him this seduction was wrong. Wild or domestic, wolves do not kill for pleasure. They kill for food, and they fight to defend their packs, but even when a pack's existence is at stake, they fight until the enemy is vanquished and almost always allow the defeated enemy to escape with its life. The Bad Thing's l.u.s.t to kill was without purpose, without design or reason. It wanted to kill only for the love of killing.

And yet its gaze, its bloodl.u.s.t, its fury were so appealing. It offered freedom from all hierarchy, freedom from all rules and laws, freedom to run wild, even wilder than wolves.

Thor and the Bad Thing stood motionless, eyes locked. Thor's mind swam with intoxicating images of blood and strength and triumph and death.

Until a far-off sound distracted him.

From hundreds of yards away, the shrill voice of Thor's dog whistle called to him in the forest, and the strange sensations vanished, washed away in a flood of reality.

The Bad Thing's bloodl.u.s.t was without focus or purpose or meaning; given the chance, the Bad Thing would gleefully kill the entire Pack. And if Thor were to surrender to its bloodl.u.s.t and join it, he would, too. A wave of guilt and revulsion washed over him, and the curiosity and fear Thor had felt toward the Bad Thing were replaced by white-hot hate.

Thor barked savagely, furiously at the Bad Thing.

And heard an unexpected response in the distance.

”Thor! Here, Thor!”

It was Dad, and he was coming closer, homing in on Thor's barks. The Bad Thing heard Dad and turned to look in the direction of the house. Its eyes gleamed with an insane l.u.s.t that sent a ripple of unnatural terror through Thor. But he stood his ground and barked, and didn't attack.

As dangerous as the Bad Thing might be, it was clearly helpless, and a helpless animal is not a threat. All Thor's defensive instincts were geared toward attacking an active threat, not a potential one. There was nothing in this bound creature that invited attack.

Besides, Dad was coming. Dad would know what to do.

Thor barked steadily, as he had in the kitchen, announcing the presence of danger and telling Dad which way to come.

”Thor! Get over here!” Dad was too far away to see the Bad Thing, and he wasn't coming any closer. Thor turned around to bark at him.

You come here!

”Thor! Dammit, get over here! Now!”

Dad's voice was a mixture of fear and anger. Thor was torn between obedience and Duty, but his Duty wasn't clear in this situation.

The Bad Thing growled in antic.i.p.ation of Dad's arrival, but Dad either couldn't hear it or didn't care. Of maybe he did hear it, and that's why he kept his distance.

”Get over here!”

Thor knew he was on the brink of being a Bad Dog. It was a line he didn't want to cross.

Snarling and showing his teeth to the Bad Thing, he circled it cautiously and started back toward Dad, glancing over his shoulder at the nightmarish creature as he left.

The Bad Thing snarled back at first, but when it saw that Thor was leaving, it exploded. It opened its mouth wide, showing its teeth, and issued a loud, voiceless, hateful hiss. It thrashed its head and shoulders from side to side in mindless fury, frantically trying to break the handcuffs or the tree trunk itself. The handcuffs bit into its wrists and it attacked the tree trunk with its teeth again. It took as much of the trunk into it jaws as it could, then lifted its hind legs and kicked against the tree like a cat. Thor stopped for a moment to watch its maniacal display, to see if it might break free after all, but the tree trunk held. The Bad Thing would not escape.

”Thor!”

Thor turned toward his Pack Leader, still worried for the safety of the Pack, but unable to disobey any longer. He trotted briskly through the dark to the distant flickering flashlight beam, trying to make up for lost time.

He approached Dad deferentially, head, ears, and body low, tail wagging apologetically between his legs. Dad stood waiting for him in Mom's bathrobe and slippers, hands on his hips, the leash dangling from his wrist.

Thor glanced over his shoulder. The Bad Thing was too far away to be seen. If only he could show Dad . . .

”Get over here!” Dad said again. He was furious. Thor was in Big Trouble. He nearly crawled to his leader, and when Dad bent down to put on the leash, he cowered as if he expected to be hit. But when Dad grabbed his collar and held it in place for the leash clasp, Thor noticed his hand was trembling. Dad acted angry, and he was - but he was also afraid.

Thor's heart sank. There was no chance of showing Dad the Bad Thing; Dad didn't want to see it. That was why he'd hung back and called Thor from a distance.

Dad gave the leash a sharp jerk and started off toward the house. Thor knew better than to resist. Behind them in the woods, faint sounds of the Bad Thing's struggle filtered through the forest.

Thor sniffed the air as they walked back to the house. At the spot where Dad was waiting, the Bad Thing's scent was barely detectable. A few yards closer to the house the scent vanished completely, replaced by the ever-strengthening scent of Uncle Ted. As always, Dad was totally oblivious to the scents. Even if Dad had a real nose like Thor's, his head was too high to follow the trails.

Did Dad know Uncle Ted was out there somewhere? If so, he didn't seem to care. Dad and Thor were about a half mile from the house, and the Bad Thing had never come near the Pack. Was Thor crazy to go so far to meet a potential enemy? The closer they got to home, the less afraid Dad became, and the more Thor doubted his own judgment.

Maybe Dad was right. Maybe the Bad Thing was too far away to pose a threat. Maybe Thor had wakened the Pack for no reason. He began to feel that awful Bad Dog feeling. But his instincts still told him the Pack was in danger.

He felt miserable; guilty for having been disobedient, guilty for waking the Pack in the night, guilty for dragging Dad into the woods for nothing. And guilty for not protecting the Pack.

For not killing the Bad Thing when he had the chance.

He almost wished Dad would punish him, to cleanse him of his guilt, but he dreaded punishment, and he dreaded the possibility of losing Dad's love more than anything else.

But if he were punished, Dad wouldn't be mad at him anymore. If he were punished, Dad would love him again.